


Trap

by damalur



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Porn Battle, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 14:32:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damalur/pseuds/damalur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The shotgun is always there—within his reach, and within hers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trap

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "shotgun" at Porn Battle VII.

When he fucks her, it's never on the bed. No, she's not _good_ enough for the bed. When he fucks her, it's always on the floor. He's always on top, and he never takes all of his clothes off, and he always keeps the shotgun in easy reach.

It always starts when he grabs a thick fist of her hair and forces her to her knees. Sometimes she sucks him off, but more usually he follows her down and strips off her pants with quick, economical movements. She tried to talk the first time, to make some smart comment, but he stood up and walked away and she didn't see him again for a week and a half. She doesn't talk anymore.

If she isn't wet for him—well, that's never happened, so she hasn't had to find out the answer to that _if_. He shoves into her without any foreplay, without checking to see if she's ready for him. Sometimes he takes her on her back, so she can't see his face. She prefers that, almost, doesn't have to see those blue laser eyes boring into her head.

Always the shotgun is there, to his right, parallel to the line of her body.

She wonders, as her elbows burn against the carpet and her hips grind back wantonly, _wanton_ is what she's supposed to be, she's supposed to want this—she wonders if in some other world there's a Faith and a Wesley who don't fuck like whores in a back alley. She wonders if there's a Wesley that doesn't have a scar on his throat and a Faith that doesn't have a scar on her belly. She wonders if that Wesley is tender and gentle, if that Faith is warm and loving. She wonders if that Faith and that Wesley love each other. She wonders if this Faith and this Wesley remember what love is.

It sounds ludicrous, she knows, the romantic fantasies of a broken woman, but there are things that make her think it might have been that way. She's never let any other man be on top of her; he never says any name but hers when he comes.

He thrusts into her and _twists_, and a low moan trips from her lips. She flings out an arm and grasps at the carpet for leverage, but her hand hits the barrel of the shotgun instead, the metal cracking against her knuckles. If she weren't so close to climaxing, she'd be surprised.

Later, she does wonder about it. He's taller than her, his reach longer, and he knows her body well enough; he could place the gun far enough away that she couldn't touch it but close enough that he could. He never does, though.

When he fucks her, the shotgun is always there—within his reach, and within hers.


End file.
